Then there was anger. If she’d only left him alone, he wouldn’t have touched a hair on her head the entire trip, and none of his morals would be compromised. God, why hadn’t she just left him the hell alone?
The guilt for ditching out on her afterward ate at him the most, but the longing thumping through his bloodstream didn’t help in the least. His libido craved her again. Like a junkie going through withdrawal, his body felt edgy and impatient, needing more...now.
He didn’t want to want her. He wasn’t ready for this pulsing, gut-eating kind of necessity. He still loved Amy. He wanted to be with Amy. He wanted to make love with her, not some rude, irritating wannabe man.
But Amy was gone, and he felt lost and so
conflicted, the water turned cold in his shower before he realized how long he’d been standing there.
Cursing under his breath, he shut off the stream and pushed the shower door open to reach for a towel.
One thing was certain. He needed to apologize.
It didn’t matter how much he blamed B.J. for their encounter, he’d fully participated. And leaving her alone afterward was inexcusable.
He’d say something on the plane.
But damn...he certainly didn’t relish the idea of being stuck alone with her on a tiny aircraft the entire way back to Tommy Creek...not when she’d be close enough he could smell her or, God help him, lean over and taste her. ****
53
B.J. arrived at the rented hangar half an hour before their rendezvous. Blood thrummed through her veins as she neared her plane. Today, she wanted to fly fast. She needed to vent, and her skywagon was just the tool in which to do that.
She’d had her Cessna TU206 for five years now.
The Gilmore family business already had three planes between them. But ever since she was six years old and her father had taken her up on a crop-dusting job, she’d wanted one to call her own. Pop let her think she was commandeering the throttle, and she’d been a goner. It’d taken her sixteen years to finally get approved for the loan to buy her own.
The money she’d borrowed for her twenty-year-old Cessna exceeded the mortgage on her house, but B.J. thought it was worth it. Her single-engine aircraft did everything she needed it to do. It was an SUV of the air. She used it for aerial photography on occasion, cargo-hauling at other times, and least frequently she transported up to four passengers or flew for skydiving lessons and jumps. She figured it’d pay itself off in another ten years if business kept on as it was.
Thankful it was a bright, sunny day, she pushed her mirrored sunglasses into place, making sure they were snugly settled before she patted the side of her Cessna in welcome. Nothing short of the hand of God was going to make her take those shades off either. Under the reflective lenses, her eyes were puffy and red.
Her hair was up in a ponytail—big shocker
there—and she wore a black tank top with blue jeans. It definitely didn’t scream, come and get me, big boy, but when she glanced up and saw Grady watching her as he approached, she felt as if she were wearing the slinkiest, hottest piece of lingerie on the planet. He wanted her. It was spelled out in his clear blue eyes as his gaze slowly traveled down 54
The Trouble with Tomboys
her body and meandered its way back up again.
Shock and animal awareness collided hard in
her gut. She still couldn’t believe he’d actually showed. It wasn’t like there would be any
commercial flights landing in their small
countryside airstrip anytime in the next millennium, but she’d wondered if he’d just rent a car or something and drive home. She’d in no way thought he’d torture himself by riding back with her in a small enclosed space for nearly a whole hour.
But here he was at eight o’clock sharp, staring at her like he wanted her for breakfast.
She sucked in a breath and tried to keep it cool, though questions stirred inside her. Did that hungry look mean he’d forgiven her? Did his presence mean he wasn’t mad? Could she hope all was okay
between them?
When their gazes met, he paused, his eyes
frosting slightly. She sighed. Okay, so maybe everything wasn’t entirely kosher. Turning away quickly, she opened the clamshell cargo door.
“Come on, B.J.,” she muttered to herself as she tossed her bag haphazardly into the belly of her plane. “You’re the queen of casual. You treat everyone the same. Just imagine he’s everyone else and not Grady Rawlings.”
Yeah, imagine she hadn’t spent a third of the night pissing the hell out of him, another third of the night screwing his brains out, and then the last third of the night sobbing like there was no tomorrow because of him. Sure. No problem.
She sucked in a breath and turned back. He’d drawn close enough for her to see the tired yet wary lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked about as ready for another confrontation with her as she felt about apologizing to him, which pretty much meant neither of them would be doing any talking for the next hour.